Blood Ties
by bloomblaum
Summary: When Sherlock Holmes is called to his dying father's bedside, the old man proclaims that Holmes is in grave danger from a supernatural presence. Holmes, of course, believes the old man is senile, until a series of events begins to prove otherwise. It's a case in which the impossible can't be so readily thrown out of the equation.
1. Chapter 1

I feel myself growing nostalgic. It is as though I can see his face again, my oldest friend. Ah. I can hear the hansoms as they clomp over the teeming streets. I can see him pacing, fretting, his face white, tense. He was always a desperate coil of energy and I felt that no one understood him but me, and not even I understood him completely. I can see Mrs. Hudson, and I can see the papers strewn everywhere across the flat, and Sherlock Holmes throwing them in the air. Sberlock Holmes, alone now on the Sussex Downs, and I must see him again before it's too late...

Once this record is written, once I have rested and I have enough strength, I will go to him. I have now this last project to undertake, this tale for which the "world is not prepared. It's important that I return briefly to the past, to my Queen Anne Street rooms, to Sherlock Holmes shaking visibly as he pulls together the curtains and sinks down on the sofa, his face white. It is July 1906. He had come unexpectedly to visit from his retirment on the Downs. My heart was light when the familiar figure appeared in my doorway, arms crossed over his chest. He was a little grayer and craggy, but his eyes were as ever bright and shining as streetlamps.

What follows is the moment that stands apart, that changed almost everything in my life:

"But what is it, Holmes?" I asked. He was looking with concentration out the window. He shussed me with a finger to his mouth, and motioned dramatically for me to get down now. I thought perhaps there was a gunman outside the window, someone as sadistic as Moriarty or his henchmen. We got down together, two bodies hunched on the now rugless floor, and I could hear the sound of his breathing, not rapid, but pressured. I opened my mouth to speak again, but Sherlock Holmes plastered a white hand over my lips. He did not even hiss a resonse to me as he usually would have done as we hid away in some dim closet or compartment.

Over the years, Holmes and I had developed a kind of unspoken telepathy with each other. His eyes telegraphed the fact that he was more afraid than he would ever let me know with words. His fingers over my mouth had a slight tremor to them. I telegraphed my alarm, my willingness to take out the revolver I was now carrying in my coat pocket, for I carried it with me everywhere now. When I touched a hand to my coat pocket, Holmes shook his head in denial of the idea.

All right. I would not get to be the hero in this drama, I saw.

Finally, after we had hunched there for over two minutes, Holmes rose to his feet and dashed to the window. He gently peeled aside the curtain and peeked out into the street. A spasm of relief seemed to come over him, and then all his countenance relaxed and he turned round to face me.

"What the devil was that?" I asked. I was still shaken. I am now reminded of the great bombings during the War, when all of London fell under an evil spell. I felt I would never know the same peace and relaxation I once had after the event.

"Apparently, nothing at all. He disapeared rather in a flash this time," he said, and his face was so calm, serene again, the logician come back to life, risen out of the ahses. He was at my side suddenly, brushing the dust from my coat with long, white fingers, and I studied him carefully, yet casually, so that even he did not suspect. I could tell he was on the verge of laughter suddenly, for the cold gray eyes were dancing with some hidden mirth. "My dear Watson, I have not yet gone senile, I assure you."

"But I did not..."

He took a step back, smiling, a very rare but welcome sight. "You did not have to say for I can read you like an open book. Entirely transparent, after all these years. Your face said it, your eyes screamed it to the heavens." The lips twisted, a small chuckle, very amusing, came from deep in his throat. "You were simply looking at me as if I were mad, and you needn't worry, at least not yet."

"Was I that obvious?"

"Indeed."

"At least not yet?" I teased. "Are you planning on going mad anytime soon? Should I be concerned?"

"I don't plan on it," he said thoughtfully, "but if such an occurence were to take place, I would like you to kill me immediately." His face had taken on a sudden, inexplicable gravitas. I struggled again to understand him, he who I thought I knew so well.

"And how would you like to be killed?" I jested. "Mrs. Hudson, I am sure, has thought up many plans over the years. Perhaps if she was still alive, I would go ask her."

"With your gun to my temple," said Sherlock Holmes, still serious. "Promise me."

"My God, you're serious!"

There was no mirth in his expression anymore, he was looking at me steadily. "Yes."

"I can promise no such thing. Turning my revolver upon my oldest friend, Holmes, I know you must be joking, surely."

"To the contrary I have never been more serious in my life. I suppose I would have to find someone else to fullfill the promise if you would not do so?"

"I shall bring forth the revolver now," I said wryly.

"But that's a good fellow!" said Holmes. "But wait until I have gone thouroughly insane..."

"I believe there was never a moment in your life when you were entirely sane to begin with. But truly, what does insanity have to do with what you saw outside the window? More importantly, what did you see?"

The following story, transcibed by Sherlock Holmes, is enclosed in full as follows...


	2. dark fairytale

Dearest Watson,

By the time you are reading this, I have departed again for the Sussex Downs, though perhaps this has been a mistake. You will understand in a moment, when this little chronicle comes to a close. I knew on the day of the "window incident," that you would be maddned when I refused to tell you the entire story behind my sudden fright. The truth was, and still is, that I feared you would think me mad. Yes, you have read that correctly, dear fellow.

I imagine you sitting quietly by the window as you read this, and it pains me to not be there and hear you react to the event in person. I fear already that retiring here may have been a mistake but you are aware, are you not, that I was entirely sick of my London reputation? Pray Watson, do not release this account to anyone else least I say so, for I do not want to wreck what I have built over the years. I say I was sick of my reputation because I could not go anywhere, as you know, without being waved down! The public was always clamoring for an autograph, or help with some ridicuoulous case! I could not stand it any longer. And yet, do you know the strangest part? I do not wish to destroy this reputation, like a sandcastle built over years and years, suddenly washed away by the tide. Pardon my lack of language skills and creativity...

No, I cannot have that ruined.

Before I decided to permantely retire to the Downs I made a visit to Sussex. The purpose was to determine whether I liked the location or not. Also, my doctor, and yourself had recommeded that I was sorely in need of some rest. I don't believe I've ever been the same since my "death at Recheinbach. Have I ever told you that before? I see demons hiding in the shadow, I see rogues prepared to kill me, and I see devils where there are none. I feel more anxious both for my security and yours than I ever was before my encounter with Moriarty. When I laid down at night, my heart was beating arrythimacly, and the doctor told me fresh air was the remedy for everything.

I made my first visit here a little over a year ago, and this is where the chronocile truly begins. I don't believe you realized I was missing. You were too tied up with your Queen Anne Street practice, and you were at that time in the coutrship of a fine lady. I did not spy on you Watson, I assure you, I simply noticed that the last time you came to see me you had lipstick smeered on your jawline. You really must take care not to let these things happen. Also, I can see the shadow falling over your dear face at this very moment, and you ask yourself if I felt deserted by you. The answer is only slightly so, so don't beat yourself very hard.

It was in June of 1906 when I first sought out the fresh air of the Downs. Immediately, I hated the place. I refused to give into the rest that my body so badly needed, and instead spent many hours walking over the Downs restlessly. By the end of the first week, I was hoping quite feverishly that a pretty little problem of one type or another would crop up for me to solve. But the days passed and nothing presented itself, yet I felt stronger because of the fresh air. The arthritis that was beginning to cripple my hands and legs began to abate and I felt renewed.

I no longer saw demons hiding in the shadows. I buried Moriarty and his henchmen deep within the archives of my mind.

I managed, somehow, to forget the true reason why I had come to the Downs. Bah, but it wasn't on the doctor's orders, nor yours, at all! Whatever the doctor asks of me, I generally choose to do the opposite, as you well know. The true reason I had sought to come here to was much more complicated and closer to my own heart. I know I have often vexed you when I refuse to speak about my family other than Mycroft Holmes. I told you little more than that I was raised by country squires. That is the truth. I have not told you my father was a drug addled and obstinate man who cast a long shadow over our lives. It was, perhaps, a blessing when he took leave forever of our family.

Understand, that is what I believed at the time. I succeded in locking ou most darker memories of my youth. Somehow, I made the unforgivable mistake of following in my father's footsteps when I discovered the relase that was found in the cocaine bottle. Over time, my attitude towards him softened, for I now understand the dark allure of the drug. But I never forgave him for the sake of my mother...

It was in May that a letter reached me that bore a postmark from Sussex Down. Dearest Son, it began, and I nearly threw it into the flames. My curiosity got the better of me and I read on. It was a desperate plea, he was dying, and he wanted to see me one last time. I am sorry about abandoning you, son, but if you can find in your heart a small measure of fogivness...It went on in this same sickening way. I crushed it in my fist, and threw it into the flames with a snarl. I reached for the cocaine bottle and then withdrew my hand as though it had been burnt. I could never forget the words, for I am darkly gifted with remembering almost everything. Even details I would rather forget.

So it was, a month later with the excuse of the doctor's orders providing easy cover, that I escaped to the Downs. I wondered if I would seek out the adress from which the letter had been sent. I decided I would leave it undecided for now. I was, in the week that followed, to grow so bored with existence that eventually I found myself contemplating the idea again. What would he look like? He would be old now. I am dying, son, as his letter had so blunty put it. And why would he want to see me again, the son that had ever been a disapointment to him? The son he had once cursed as being such a burden on his soul.

As I found myself once again stretching out my fingers for the cocaine bottle, I decided I must see my father again. Perhaps, in his own face, I would see the ruin that eventually would befall me. I am not certain what I expected to see, only that I needed to see him. I was also motivated by a dream of my mother, with her pinched face and long black tresses. The grief over him had slowly eaten her alive. I had watched our family die.

I found the cottage that matched the adress from the letter. It was a deserted looking place with vines crawling up the sides. Logic told me the best possible thing I could do would be to turn and walk away down the gravel path. I was propelled forward with feet that didn't seem to belong to me and with an overwhelming sense of curiosity. If I may use the liberty of the writer here, the place looked like a cottage out of Grim's fairytales, Watson. It looked like the cottage that Hansel and Gretel admist the deep woods where the witch awaited.

I knocked lightly on the wooden door, then more urgently. I had a vision of my father already dead, laying among stacks of books, perhaps with a coaine needle jutting out of his alarm. I drew in a deep breath and prepared to open the door myself when a young woman answered. I deduced immediately that she was his maid and nurse-the stark white uniform and matter of fact expression in her widely spaced eyes. "My name is Sherlock Holmes-" I began, and she waved me in at once.

It was quite inside. "He is in the back room," the nurse whispered. The cottage did not have many rooms. There was only the main space, which was a sort of living area, and my fahter's bedroom on the other side of a door to the left. I tried to deduce what I could about this man I hadn't seen in years. I had been right about the books, though it had been impossible for me to know that just by standing outside the cottage! I decided that it had been a matter of my earliest memories. I remembered that he had always been an avid reader. I had managed to block that fact out until just moments ago. The books were on subjects I knew little about-mythology, local folklore, and archeology. Ah, but I had a taste for archeology myself!

"Come this way." My gaze was torn away from the books by the young nurse. She was motioning for me to follow me through the door. In retrospect, I should have turned away, forgotten about this ridiculous expedition born of boredom, (or so I tried to tell myself.) I followed the nurse into the bedroom and there was my father, or at least the shell of the man I had once known. He was laying propped up against the pillows. His eyes were closed and what little hair was left on his head stuck up in grayish tufts. He was so thin as to look emaciated, and his tall form was jutting out at odd angles under the sheets.

"Mr. Holmes, your son here to see you," said the nurse. The cold grey eyes opened and I was looking at the man I had known years ago. My father. He cleared his throat to speak and I stood indifferntly in the doorway to the room. I wondered if I should step forward to take his hand in mine. I felt no such kindness for him right now. The eyes were covered in a milky film. I knew they had once been sharp, the whole man halklike in his observations. His hands, folded one on top of the other were shaking slightly.

"Son," said my father in a rasping voice, and reached out his hand to me. Out of requirment, and not devotion, I came closer to him. His hand reached up to touch my face and he ran his fingers along the edge of my orbital cavity. The fingers were icy cold. "It's been too long."

I wanted to ask him if he knew that it was himself, not his family, who had been responsible for the rift between us. "I recieved your letter," I said instead, and the icy fingers continued up to my hairline to touch my greying hair. He took a deep breath and I felt his fingertips tremble against my skin. "Sherlock," he whispered.

"Yes," I answered, and then at a loss of what to do, sat down in the comfortable velvet chair beside him. I had always had a taste for velvet chairs, sofas, upholstery, and such as you know. I folded my arms across my chest and watch the long white fingers withdraw from my face, still trembling. I looked at him more closely. He was a collection of needlemarks, scars, and sallow skin. He was, in answer to my question, a more depraved version of myself. I was not as repelled by his company as I thought I would be.

The room was silent as I studied him. I knew he had more questions for me than I had for him. I looked down to see his frail hand desperately clutching on to mine. "I'm so sorry, my son. So very, very sorry..." His voice broke and the milky eyes shimmered with tears. I braced myself against feeling any emotion for him and continued to deduce what I could about his situation. Indeed, death would claim him very, very soon. "Do you find in your heart the courage to forgive me?"

I did not answer.

"Ah, but you have to think logically about this," he said. "You always took your time with all problems, and now perhaps I am the greatest problem you have ever faced."

Something about my father's words struck my like a blast of cold air. I tried very hard not to shiver. "Is it true what I've read in the stories written by Dr. Watson? Is my son the best detective the world has ever known?"

"Best is a relative term," I said, considering each word carefully. "I have certainly solved more problems in my lifetime perhaps Scotland Yard put together. But that is not to say there are not better, more calculating minds at work in this world to which I shall _never be equal to."_ I was surprised at the bitterness my tone had taken. I was suddenly aware of a memory trying to break the surface. _Boy, _rages my father, _get up and do something why don't you? You lazy little devil sprawled on the sofa. Get out of this hosue this moment! Now!_

I was afraid that my father would cry, and that I would have to mutely endure his tears. I did not think I could bear the skeletal form reduced to a quivering heap. He swallowed several times and blinked back the tears threatening to spill. "My boy, one never thinks logically about love," he said roughly. "And I love you now with all my heart."

That was all I could take. Forget his voice breaking on the last syllable, forget the soft, shaky limbs. That was the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back! "You love me now because I am famous!" I raged. "You love me because I have made something of my life as you sit here dying. I have the success you always dreamed about. Your son, the frail, thoughtful boy, given to hours of silent study than in your mind was completely worthless. You are amazed, and perhaps forgetful of the hurtful way you treated our family in my youth, but I haven't forgotten..."

He was struck silent by my words. I was calming down now, astonished that I had lost my composure so fully. I should have accepted the fact that my fahter loved me and not questioned the reason behind it.

"Fame has perhaps began to go to your head, Sherlock," said my father coldly. "I never meant to imply that it was the reason behind my feelings."

He was right. I had leaped to a conclusion based on my bitterness towards him, not on any substantial evidence. It seemed improbable that he would want to see me for reasons other than money. I bowed my head to think and found myself craving a cigarette. "Perhaps that is true," I admitted, again carefully choosing the words. "I take pride in my work. Or I did, as I have recently retired."

He looked momentarily disapointed, but the shadow passed. " You do good work if the words of Dr. Watson are true."

I cannot describe in words the strange swelling of warmth that spread over my spine. I folded my hands neatly again and stared at them, hoping the pleasure was not at once obvious.

"He embellishes everything," I said with a wave of the hand. You are cringing as you read this, I can see it. You already know my feelings towards your work, and furthermore that I would be very fortunate to posess the amount of talent you hold in your left pinky when you sit down to write an account. I am trying desperately to keep you interested, and if I am failing, even with the hideous amount of meladrama present in this scene, I fear there is no hope for me.

"Why have you written to see me now?" I asked. It was the question that pressed most heavily on my mind, the question I'd been asking since I followed the surefooted nurse into his bedchamber. She had left us alone, leaving the door ajar.

"In part, to ask for forgiveness. Sherlock, please...I won't be here much longer." I did not like the desperation dripping in the old man's voice. I was silent until he spoke again, asking me to read to him out of a book of mythology. He pointed with a knarled finger to a book that lay on his bedside table and I picked up the heavy volume and rested it in my lap.

The book was titled _Vampire Legends_, of all things, and I was vexed. Had this man grown senile, or was he simply interested in various forms of mythology? I remembered now the case we had been on where a woman was supposedly victim of one of these bloodsucking demons. The solution of course, had been elementary, and never for one second had I believed there to be anything supernatural in the whole affair. I opened the book to where the velvet coloured bookmark was stuck between the pages and began to read. The old man's eyelids grew heavy, and eventually shut. The sunlight streamed through the window, and I could hear the droll buzz of the bees he kept in the hives out back.

I closed the book and set it aside. The legend had described the vampire's longing for blood, which surpassed any other longing the beast could feel. I was faintly repulsed by the writer's style, which read rather like a penny dreadful novel. My father slowly opened his eyes and blinked sleepily at me. His eyes then opened wide in astonishment. "Sherlock, you are here! You've come to see me!" He rasped out, his hands trembling as he touched the sides of my face. "You recieved my letter and you came to see me."

He was so far gone. My heart grew heavy as I stared at this poor shell of a creature with the needle marks dotting his sinewy arms. I took his hand in my own. The bones were so brittle that they could have belonged to a sparrow. I was struck again by how much looking at myself in a distorted glass this was. His arms, my arms, covered in scars. Our bones brittle. "Yes, father. I am here," I said. His eyes searched over me and he sighed deeply, happily.

"You don't know how long I've been waiting to see you." Each word was an effort. He tried to squeeze my hand. "Sherlock, did you know that means fair haired? Your hair, as black as midnight. Jet black..." Again, his fingers touching my orbital cavity, feeling the grey hairs at my temples. My father's hair was nothing but tufts of grey, yet I remembered that it had used to be a golden yellow. It was from my mother that my own black hair came.

I had known the question would come, but it blasted me again with the force of cold air. There was no longer desperation in the voice, but rather weary acceptance when he spoke the words. "Sherlock, forgive." The hands were trembling as they touched my temple.

"I forgive you," I said quitely, knowing it would not be much longer until he departed my life once and for all, the final curtain falling down on this last somber act.

He sighed deeply and sunk down into the pillows. "Thank you. I have waited a long time in this cramped room to hear those words."

I nodded, seeing from the corner of my eye that the nurse had reentered the room. I expected her to promptly force me out of the room, but she was looking at my father's face, at the soft smile that turned up the corners of his lips. He seemed so serene that I thought about leaving at that moment. I began to stand. "You are in danger, my son. Grave danger." I sat back down. I waited for him to speak again. "You are in danger from the unknown ones. The books, read them. They are your guide. Not much else is known. I had to warn you before you are in too deep."

I hoped secretly that my father would close his eyes and go back to sleep. It was terrible to hear him raving so. Imagine how you felt when I raved to you about oysters and shillings when you thought I was on my deathbed. You were no doubt horrified by my behaviour, particularly as I had once been so rational a being. He closed his eyes and I made to stand up and leave when a cold hand closed around my wrist.

"Play the violin for me one last time. I want to hear you play it," he said. I looked around me and saw the instrument resting against the bedside table. I picked it up and savored how familar it felt in my hands, how welcoming. The violin has always been my primary source of expression and I cradled it against my neck and began to play the last song I would ever play for my father. It was a violin concerto in d major, composed by Beethoven. I had never been able to do justice to the classic master, but tonight I played with my hands on fire and a blinding white light before my eyes. I played with passion, and my father cried, the tears silently spilling from his eyes onto the pillow. I played until his eyes closed for the final time, the final sleep from which he would never awake. My father had left me for the last time.

I felt his wrist for a pulse with two fingers and felt none. He was dead. I should have wept, though I could not feel the deep wellspring of a emotion required for such an act. I stared numbly instead, then gently forced his eyelids closed.

I looked at him one last time in the failing light produced by the single candle beside his bed. It was then that I realized the two peculiar marks on his neck. They looked to be made by fangs of some sort, two marks side by side and spaced about an inch apart. I moved his collar back and stared at them more closely, disturbed but curious. Was this some self inflicted form of penance? Had my father, grown weary of injecting his veins with drugs, turned to mutilating himself with some foreign object? The longer I stared, the more curious the marks became. I was reminded of the case of the Sussex vampire that we had handled in the past, where a vampire was supposedly responsible for causing harm to an innocent enough family. Of course, as you well know, there was no supernatural explanation to be found, though I well remember your wide eyed stare at the outset of the case.

As was most likely, my father had either done himself harm in some moment of moment of deep remorse, or he had been bitten by a simple bat as may inhabit the Downs at night. I also considered that he had been shot purposefully by a dart, though it seemed highly unlikely. So far as I was aware, no one wished to do him harm, though I didn't possess enough facts to know for certain. I decided that, as peculair as it was, a bat was probably to blame for my father's condition.

I departed the room at last, just as it was growing dark outside, and found myself once again the main living space. The nurse was seated in a chair opposite the fire, a cup of coffee cradled in her hands. Her eyes were bloodshot from crying. "Thank you for coming to see him, Mr. Holmes. You did him a right service. He'd been delerious for weeks about his need to see you."

I muttered that it was not a problem at all and declined her offer of food or a place to rest for the night. She thanked me again, placing both hands on my shoulders, and then her eyes widened with a sudden thought. "But he wanted to make sure you got something before you left. Allow me to retrieve it." She walked back into the bedroom and rummaged in the drawer of the bedside table before pulling out a sheef of papers bound together. "He insisted that you read this," she said gently. "Heaven knows what he's written, but he was very insistent."

I thanked her for the care she'd taken with the obstinate old man, asking if there was anything I could do before I left. I slipped on the oval framed sunglasses I had bought for a cheap price at a shop in London as I slipped out the face was hot, and I pressed both hands to the side to cool it. Night would be coming on soon, and as I looked back at the cottage I was once again struck by an awareness that it was similar to the one in the dark fairytale.

I shook my head at the nonsense, and slipped away into the waiting night.

What remains to be told, is I hope lighter in nature. I am well aware, and in fact repulsed, by the meladramatic tone my story has set so far. I believe the words to about the quality of those in a penny dreadful. If this is the case, do keep in mind that the only works of fiction that I regulary read are the aforementioned penny dreadfuls and any work written by yourself. Again, you are frowning to yourself, and thinking how ridiculous this entire work seems.

Keep reminding yourself that it's neccesary to keep reading to understand the alarm I felt when I looked out the window at Queen Anne Street. If you do this, my writing may become bearable, if not even mildly intriguing. How true you were when you said that writing could be an excercise in torture! I am seated right now in my laboratory on the Sussex Downs, if I must set the scene for you. A cold breeze drifts through the window, and I can hear the bees, like the bees my father kept, humming endlessly out in the yard. You, I imagine, are seated in the velvet chair I gave to you when I left for my retirement. The cushion is turned over because your bull pup, before it's untimely demise, relived itself there, causing our dear Mrs. Hudson to fly into a frenzy.

Now, you squirm at the memory, and perhaps you stand up...There, I feel I have done the neccesary embellishments justice.

Before I continue with this chronicle, which I warn you does not get any happier, I must relate to you the contents of the papers given to me by father. I often wish the nurse had not thought to give them to me. I have thought about burning them, but I don't. I will relate to you now the contents now. I am sending them along with what I have written, so kindly turn the page and read them for yourself.

Below is the letter written by Holmes' father:

Dear son(the writing is an arthritic man's script)

Thank you for coming to see me after all this time. I hope you have forgiven me, and if not that you humour me and read this letter carefully. It is written for your own good. You are in grave danger. These are not the ramblings of a senile man. You are in danger most likely because I have put you in the way of it once again. The danger comes from a source that will most likely make you laugh and throw the pages into the fireplace grate. Already, you may have done so, believing me to be insane. I am too tired to make this warning very long, so I will stick to the relevant details. About a month ago, when I was still well enough to walk the Downs, I encountered a caravan of wandering gypsies who promised me a sum of money if I would sell to them my mortal soul! They were odd creatures, traveling by moon light, bright eyed and pale skinned.

My son, I beg of you, don't throw this page into the flames yet. As I was desperately in need of the money, I laughed and held out my hand. The fools! The leader, a woman with firey red hair, drew me close and it seemed that she was about to bite into my neck when she pulled back suddenly. The whole spectacle was barbaric, and I ran away with fists full of money. I awoke in the middle of the night to find the red haired woman standing over me in the dim glow of the lamp. I thought I was dreaming, but then she spoke of the sweet scent of my blood, and how it sent her into ecstacy. She carresed my neck gently, and I felt her teeth pierce soft flesh. I tried not to cry out. I was entranced as well as horrified. The shaodws of the room grew deeper, darker, but I was being transported to paradise. "Please leave me!" I begged of her as the teeth ripped gently at my neck and I was carried on a tide of rapture. I knew then that she was some sort of devil. I have discovered since that such beings are called vampires...

As she bit into my neck, I was flooded with memories that were not mine. A young girl being pushed about by a gang of rough men in a shadow filled alley, the River Thames under the moonlight...I was somehow looking into her mind, seeing the shape of her thoughts. I knew that she was reading mine at the same time, seeing my many failures. "So you have written to the boy, and you believe he will come to you. How fortunate, that on the Downs, no one shall hear that boy _scream."_

My dear Sherlock, look at the marks upon my neck if you think I am lying. She has looked into my mind, and I hope she has not seen the black haired boy I have come to love. That, in truth, I have always loved, though I was a fool in my youth. Understand now, that I regret everything, and think of you fondly as my son. You have done any father proud with your work and your cunning. If you do not choose to think of me as a father, I undesrtand. I only wanted your forgiveness. Please accept my regards.

You can imagine my surprise, and yes, alarm, upon reading these words. I was certain the old man had lost his mind, thus explaining the apperance of the creature he called a vampire. There was no other explanation, and as I've told you many times, when you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth. Well, it was not even improbale that an old man, living alone, would begin to lose his mind. That was the shape of things. Or so I believed.

You know that durning my professional days in London, I was rarely ever wrong because logic is a powerful guide. I have come since to belive that maybe the impossible cannot always be thrown so easily from the equation. I think that when I am wrong it is suicidaly, dangerously so. Remember the case of the Five Orange Pips, Watson, our client dead in a puddle of rain? When I am wrong, death seems to follow.

I forgot about the letter written by father. I set it aside in a drawer and set my sights on the healing properties of the countryside. I had taken a walk down to the tidal pools when I first saw the red haired woman. She was staring at me, standing near the chalky cliff immediately in front of me. I blinked several times in recollection of the red haired monster from my father's tale, then shook my head rapidly. I chuckled to myself. I have rarely been overtaken by fancy, and I was ashamed of myself for the imaginative twist my mind had taken.

I turned to study the tidal pools and then the woman was gone in a flash when I glanced at the cliffs again. I gazed around me and saw her to my right. She was wearing a man's clothes, loose and ill fitting. She looked as though she could benefit from swimming in the sea to cleanse away the filth on her hands, under her fingernails. I deduced that she was a gyspsy, that she played the guitar well, and that her grace made her a wonderful pickpocket. The sun was sinking, and fire seemed to dance in her hair, her eyes.

Keep in mind, I felt no physical attraction towards her, though I was drawn to stare for no reason. I was pulled to her because she seemed to make the air about her vibrate and shimmer. Every time I averted my gaze, it was drawn back to her again. There was something profoundly strange about this woman, and I would go as far as to state she had an air of seduction irresistable to most men.

I became aware of another man approaching her as she stared in my direction. She seemd deep in thought and I wondered if perhaps she would approach me. I waved to her as I walked, my feet dragging in the sand, tired. The man was very near her suddenly, standing within the invisible zone that most strangers wouldn't dare cross. He was wearing a red velvet top hat and a suit. My hearing, which is still acute, managed to pick up a scattering of words. I was certain I heard the words, blood, Holmes, and Elder, and I shook my head, wondering if perhaps my ears were decieving me. I swirled my finger around the inside of my ear and paused to listen again, pretending to be deep in inspection of the cliffs.

They seemed to be speaking now in a language I did not speak. Both were staring at me. I wondered what about me had provoked such asn upset, for the woman was now shaking her head violently and protesting as the man continued to speak. "Now, we must get him to come with us as soon as possible. He waits..." I heard the man hiss, in conjunction with a stream of syllables I didn't understand. The woman was again adament that she would not follow his command. She turned away from him and his hand rose and slapped her heavily across the face.

I had watched all this in silence but I leapt now into action, furious that any man should have the nerve to set his hands upon a woman. I had seen such acts of violence in London and it had never failed to set me on edge. I had seen them growing up to adolecense the quiet little country house too. "You there, step away from her!" I cried. He turned to face me, his eyes narrowing to slits in the deeply sunken pits. He dashed across the path towards me and I braced myself, thankful that my limbs felt strong today. The man had the strength and speed of a demon, for he standing in front of me in an instant.

I have described the red haired woman as seductive, but there was a similar quality to this man. He was around my age, with a proud face and bright blue eyes. His hair had gone almost entirely grey. "What do you mean by doing that?" He hissed. His nostrils flared, they were oddly thin. "Come closer so we may talk."

"Your treatment of that lady was not up to par with a gentleman's standards," I said softly. He was looking at me in a way that was carnal, hungry. I tightened my grip on the handcrafted wooden cane I had brought on this trek. He was staring fixedly at my neck, and I was reminded of the twin teethmarks on my father's skin. He was breathing heavily and his face bent down as though to sink into my neck. Bracing myself, I whacked him smoothly and without thought across the arm. I countered any further attacks and he shrunk away.

I cannot forget the words which carried on the breeze: "_He will make us all pay for your digression, you bloody fool!"_

My dear Watson, I am getting to the end of this account and still it makes no better sense to me. I looked around me for the red haired woman, but she was no longer in my line of vision. I turned and strode back up the treacherous cliff to my villa which waited above. I looked down again at the tidal pools below. No sign of either party. Only when I had sunk down on my sofa with exhaustion did I realize I was bleeding. Ah, but the fiend had torn my neck with his teeth. I had not felt it at the time, but now a thin stream of blood was trailing from the wound. I felt hot and cold suddenly, as I felt hot and cold intermitently since.

I must touch briefly on the nightmares. Ever since the event near the tidal pools I have had inexplicable dreams of death and chaos. I see myself bleeding out and no one is around to aid the stream of blood. I see others dying, lying in bloody rivers that surge down the steeets. These dreams come nearly every night now. It may be that I have seen too much death in my life, too much evil, and that I see it even as I dream.

Also, the sunlight burns my eyes and skin more than it used to do. However, I have decided this is due to the fact of my aging, and palid skin.

This narrative has reached its twilight hour, so I may answer that question you have burning so hotly inside of you. When I looked out that window on Queen Anne Street, I saw my father standing there. That is why I dove to the floor with you alongside me. It was simply impossible. He was dead. I thought briefly that I dreamed, but I was wide awake. If it was impossible, then I must draw to the inexoriable conclusion that I am going insane.

Remember my words, Watson, you are my only friend, my oldest and most faithful companion. Your gun to my temple. If I become too far gone, promise me. I need to know you will be there. I need to know you will enact that simple, final promise. I have nothing more to say for now. I shall continue to try and visit and you know the door to my villa is always wide open. But the bees demand my attention now so I must go...

Faithfully yours,

Sherlock Holmes

That was the letter I recieved from Sherlock Holmes. My heart sank upon reading those words. I supposed it was inevitable that even the best minds eventually begin to lose luster with time. Yet, I refused to except that there was anything wrong with my dear companion. I had pegged his condition as nothing more than lack of sleep and stress. I thought immediately of telegraphing him and then remembered the modern marvel that was the telephone. I picked it up immediately and dialed for Sussex...


	3. Chapter 3

"Watson?" The voice on the line sounded pleased. "I was just out with the bees. You wouldn't believe how facinating a single hive can be."

"Yes. I've just read the letter you sent me. You're quite the writer. I would say your devloping the right touch."

"..." Silence. Was he soaking up my praise?

"You really think it was...decent?"

"Yes, I do. But the real question is, is all of it true?" Even now, I could imagine the grey eyes alight with mirth. I had not disregarded Holmes' odd sense of humour or the fact that this whole thing might have been a joke.

"Every word," said Holmes gravely.

"I am sorry about your father," I responded. "It took courage to seek him out. And as for your own problems, I don't think there's anything a few nights of restful sleep can't cure. I've known patients much like yourself who..."

"Bah, that's enough!" Cut in my companion. "I have had plenty of sleep and I've had plenty of time to have nightmares of the sort I described in that infernal letter. You need not prasie me Watson when prasie is not due. I know well that I am a failure as a writer, and the question of me developing any real skills is like asking a man to levitate his physical body and take flight with the birds. Such things are crude and impossible, and don't bear further examination."

I hadn't expected this attitude from Holmes. I thought about hanging up the phone. "I do not have your touch, and therefore I do not posses the ability to describe...to describe with true accuracy all that I have seen and heard. I only know that my father has died and that he is not dead at the same time. I see him often standing outside my villa! He stands there in the light of the moon and stares somely through my window! I am losing the greatest asset which I have ever possesed...my mind. When it is gone, there shall be nothing else for me in this world." He said all this bitterly.

"You are emotionally stressed. You won't admit that seeing your father brought to the forefront emotions-"

"Enough of that babel," spat out Holmes. "Emotions have rarely entered into the picture of how I view a problem. Emotions have nothing to do with these visions of my father."

I could hear him breathing on the other line. I considered carefully what to say next. "I wish you could spend a few days in London again, in Queen Anne Street with me," I said. "It may be that you need to get away from the Downs again for a while. You can slip once more again into the familar cloaking magic of London, walk the old streets, and see if you don't feel stronger."

"I suppose I cannot present any objections," answered Holmes. We made plans and he hung up the phone.

The man that visited me the next evening was more palid, and thinner than I last remembered. He tried to smile when I opened the door but it was dead on his lips. "Ah, the good Watson, ever ready to help," he said as I took the suitcase from his hands. I admit, it was good to hear the strident voice again and behold the glimmer in his grey eyes. For a moment, neither of us moved, and the air was heavy. I set down the travel case, and embraced him without thought, though he was stiff as a board, and the gesture may have alarmed him.

How I enjoyed it though. How I wished the moment would last. My readers have never gauged, perhaps, the depths of my feelings for Sherlock Holmes...These are deep waters indeed.

"What is the appropriate response to this?" I heard him mutter, all his muscles tense, as I patted him once on the back.

"I'm afraid there isn't a standard one."

"Ah. "

"You look exhausted," I said with a deep sigh. "It's my medical opinion that you need rest, and you need it as soon as possible."

"I've had nothing but rest for the past few months," he complained, and reached inside his pocket for a cigar. "Rest is making me exhausted, I fear. And..." His eyes had taken on an odd, abstravted gleam. "Mad."

"Say no such thing." I waved a hand dismissiviley.

"Pray tell you read the story!" He cried. "All of it, Watson, is positively, unfortunately true! And seeing as it's true, I must be insane. You see, it is the only explanation that makes sense. I've told you I've seen my dead father, and you, my dear physician, proscribe rest. Did I go around seeing dead clients after they were popped off this mortal coil? Did I see ghosts of the criminals I have sent to the gallows over hte long years. No! None of that. You may then deduce that my stress has never manifested in delusions before."

"You would be truly surprised at what images a sane mind in need of rest can conjure!" I protested hotly. "Why yesterday, I thought I glimpsed..." I took a moment to swallow. "I was certain I saw Mary in the crowd near the train station. I almost called our her name..."

"Hah, Watson, but you ever were the spirutalist!"

"I do not think it's funny!"

"My apologies. It is not."

It was growing dark outside as Sherlock Holmes settled on the sofa to smoke. He fell into a prolonged silence during which I read the newspaper and stole glances at the reclining form. He was so symbolic, so much the Holmes in the black and white prints drawn by Sidney Pagent. I imagined the gears turning inside the magnifient brains. I imaged the rust on the gears as they turned, and felt heavy. _All machinery breaks eventually, _I reminded myself. _Sharp edges grow dull, wheels no longer turn, rust as dark as blood clogging up the great machine..._I shivered in spite of myself, in spite of the warm night.

"I wish I could read your mind," said Sherlock Holmes unexpecedly. "Just a brief glimpse into what you're thinking of me now, with your brows drawn, and your face a great, resplentent pout!"

"But you can read my mind," I answered. "You've done it many times. I believe you're doing it now."

"Your expressions only get me so far. The soul, the core of your thoughts, is like a seed, buried deep in the fruit. I cannot extricate it so easily this time."

_Best that he can't. _I thought.

"But yes," he smiled devilishly, "I do look rather like the depection by Sidney Pagent."

"Holmes!" I gasped. "How..."

"I was concious of the way I was sitting along with your look of contemplation, and the slight smile you let slip loose before your face collapsed momentarily."

"Amazing!"

"Pmfth!"

I made to reply when he went completely still. He was staring out the window with the utmost concentration, his body rigid as though in death. It was only a slight shaking of the white fingers on his lap that betrayed his nerves. "I implore you to look out hte window..." said Sherlock Holmes.

I did so then in the warm half glow of my living room. _Hopefully, there is something out in the twilight. If not, what shall I say?_ I drew in a deep breath and turned to follow his gaze. There, standing feet away from our window, was an emacited man with tufts of white hair. The giant of a fellow, with long limbs and pale, thin lips was looking into the living room. There was an expression of longing and sadness in his features. It was the picture of my dear friend, aged many years. It made my heart race to see him.

"I see an elderly man," I replied. "Is that-"

"Father dearest," said Holmes caustically, balling his hands in to fists on his lap. "He was dead, I was certain. I felt no pulse when I left him. We had a closed casket on the Downs for him, and I saw him lowered into the ground." He leapt from the chair. "I never saw the body in the coffin. He must have lived when I left, and the pulse was just too weak. Hah!" He laughed suddenly. "What a fool I am!"

There was a sudden rap upon the door. He rushed to answer it, the palid hands still trembling. I will never forget the look upon his face as he answered the door. Not after the years that have followed has his expression faded like so many other things in my mind. I had never seen him look so shocked, in all the long years of our association. I did not think anything left in the world could startle him so completely. Outside the door stood the palest, saddest creature I had ever seen. His limbs were shriveled but his eyes were star bright, and he was staring at Holmes with such unrestrained longing.

"You look like a corpse," whispered Holmes. "Father, you need to eat. Come in."

He shuffled into my living room and I felt cold suddenly. The chill was inside my bones, but it seemed to be emanating from Holmes' father. Surely, one could not be so thin and still be alive?

"Why would you...lie to me?" I hardly recognized my friend's voice. It was the voice of a small, wounded child. I could suddenly see the small boy with his shock of black hair, curled in some corner, knees up to his chest. A fleeting, almost impossible glimpse. "Mycroft and I thought you were dead. We saw you lowered into the ground. I nearly had to pay him off to come, but he showed up for the service."

"Death would be too good for me." The words were spoken in a surprisingly clear voice. I had expected a phlemy, old man's drawl. "God would not even grant the last gift of final rest to such a fool as myself."

"You decieved us!" Cried out Sherlock Holmes. "We've..we've wasted time going to your funeral, while you live and breathe!" _His knees are drawn up and he breathes shallowly, the air around him musty. A black fly lands lazily on the end of his nose._

"Sherlock, I wish I _was _decieving you. I am dead. I have no pulse, no respiration. I _am a living corpse."_

_"Hahahaha!" _My dear friend laughed without restraint. His entire body shook with laughter. "You will be soon if you do not get down to the facts of your visit. Was it not enough to write me after I had forgotten you existed, to taunt me with your unwanted presence. Now you purport to do it from the grave. I do not suffer fools kindly."

"I have had my blood stolen, my son, by a red haired bloodsucking thief, and I have become something of a devil, a vampire, they are called."

"A vampire?" said Holmes, shaking his head. "I've had enough."

I was suddenly concious of the old man's eyes upon me. He was looking at me with longing and sadness. "Just the smallest drink, and I will leave. Please son. Forever, I will leave you."

"I shall bring you whiskey, and then please do leave me and Mycroft alone. We have lived long enough without you to guide us with your wholseome light," he said sardonically, and so bitterly that my skin crawled.


End file.
